"My wife is a ballet buff," he went on. "Actually, I didn't care much for it when she first started dragging me to every one of your
performances. But soon I learned to enjoy it, especially when you and your husband were featured in the lead roles. In fact, my wife seemed to have no interest in ballet at all unless you and your husband were featured. I used to fear she had a crush on your husband--he looks a little like me." He took my hand and lifted it to his lips, flashing his eyes upward and smiling with the easy charm of a man who knew what he was, a ladies' man used to putting notches on his belt. "You are even more beautiful off stage than on. But what are you doing in this part of the country?"
"I live here."
He pulled out a chair for me, sat me down so close he could watch my legs when I crossed them. He perched on the edge of his desk to offer me a cigarette, which I refused. He lit one for himself, then asked, "You're on vacation? Visiting your husband's mother?"
I realized he didn't know about Julian. "Mr. Winslow, my husband died from injuries sustained in an auto accident more than three years ago--didn't you hear about it?"
He appeare
d shocked and a bit embarrassed. "No, I didn't hear. I'm very sorry. Please accept my belated condolences." He sighed and ground out his half- smoked cigarette. "The two of you were sensational on stage--it's a terrible pity. I've seen my wife cry she was so impressed."
Yeah! I'll bet she was impressed. I shrugged off more questions and came directly to the object of my visit by handing him Julian's insurance policy. "He took out this policy shortly after we were married and now they won't pay because they think he cut the intravenous tube that was feeding him But, as you can see, after two years the suicide clause is no longer in effect."
He sat down to read it carefully, and then looked up at me again. "I'll see what I can do. Are you in immediate need of this money?"
"Who isn't in need of money, Mr. Winslow, unless they are millionaires?" I smiled and tilted my head in the manner of my mother. "I have hundreds of bills and I have a small son to support."
He asked the age of my son; I told him He appeared puzzled and confounded in more ways than one as I looked at him with sleepy, half-closed eyes, my head tilted backward and slightly to one side, in a mannerism that was my mother's way of looking at a man. I was only fifteen when I'd kissed him. He was far more handsome now. His mature face was long and lean, his bones too prominent, but in a very virile, masculine way he was strikingly good looking. Something about him suggested an exaggerated sensuality. And no wonder my mother hadn't sent a check. Probably all my blackmail letters were still following her from place to place.
Bart Winslow asked a dozen or more questions, then he said he'd see what he could do. "I'm a pretty good lawyer once my wife allows me to stay home and get my hand into a practice."
"Your wife is very rich, isn't she?"
This appeared to annoy him. "I suppose you could say she is," he answered stiffly, letting me know he didn't like discussing the subject.
I stood to leave. bet your rich wife leads you around like a pet poodle on a jeweled leash, Mr. Winslow. That's the way rich women are. They don't know the least thing about working for a living, and I wonder if you do."
"Well, by God," he said, jumping off the desk and standing with feet wide apart, "why did you come if you feel that way? Go to another attorney, Miss Dahl. I don't want a client who insults me and has no regard for my abilities."
"No, Mr. Winslow, I want you. I want you to prove you know your business as you claim to. Maybe, in a way, you can then prove something to yourself as well--that you aren't after all, just a rich woman's bought little plaything."
"You have the face of an angel, Miss Dahl, but a bitch's tongue! I'll see your husband's insurance firm pays off. I'll petition them to appear in court, and threaten to sue. Ten to one they'll settle within ten days."
"Good," I said. "Let me know, for as soon as I have the money, I'm moving."
"Where?" he asked, striding forward to take hold of my arm.
I laughed, looking up into his face and using the ways a woman had to make a man interested, "I'll let you know where I go, in case you want to keep in touch."
In ten days, true to his word, Bartholomew Winslow came by the dance school to hand me the check for one hundred thousand dollars, "Your fee?" I asked, waving off the girls and boys who came running to surround me. I was wearing a tight practice outfit, and he was all eyes.
"Dinner at eight, next Tuesday night. Wear blue to match your eyes, and we'll discuss the fee then," he said, then turned to leave, not even waiting for my answer.
When he was gone, I turned around and looked at the children doing their warm-up positions, and somewhere above I hovered, looking down, and feeling scorn for the pitiful thing I was that innocence should admire me so much. I felt sad for them, for me.
"Who was that man who came to give you check?" Madame Marisha asked me when class was over.
"An attorney I hired to force Julian's insurance company to pay off--and they did."
"Ah, " she said, falling into her old swivel desk chair, "now you have money and can pay off bills--I suppose you will quit working for me and go off somewhere, yah?"
"I'm not sure just what I plan to do yet. But you must admit, Madame, you and I don't get along very well, do we?"
"You have too many ideas I don't like. You think you know more than me! You think now that you work here few months, you can go away and start new school of your own!" She smiled evilly to see my start of surprise, revealing the truth she only guessed at. "So . . . you think me stupid too! You'll look all your life before you find another as smart as me. I read your mind, Catherine. You don't like me, never have, never will . . . yet you come to work for me to learn the business, right again? I don't care. Dancing schools come and dancing schools go, but the Rosencoff School of Ballet go on forever! Once I thought I'd leave it to Julian, but he's dead, then I thought when I die, I'd leave it to you--but I won't if you take your son away so I can't teach him!"
"Madame, that is your choice, but I am taking Jory away."